Toppings

by Nicole Patterson

Nicole Patterson

My hair didn’t come out all at once
or in big clumps like I had heard about
from others enduring chemotherapy
treatments. It fell out gradually, strand
by strand. I found my hair everywhere
– on my clothes, my pillow, the back
of the couch, the bottom of the shower.
I had a generous quantity to start with,
and for a long time no one noticed.
“Thank goodness you haven’t lost
your hair,” I would hear from a well
meaning friend.

“No, haven’t lost it … yet,” I would
reply. I knew the “yet” was coming.

When my scalp started becoming
uncomfortably visible, a shorter haircut
and some volumizing hair product
bought me some more time. Day by
day, I was constantly shedding hair.
Without a hat, I stood naked. The futile
hair that covered the top of my
head was nothing more than comic
relief. As if finding clothes wasn’t frustrating
enough, now I had to coordinate
a hat into the outfit.

For as long as I can
remember, my hair
has been part of
my identity. It was
long, thick, and
golden blond.

Nicole’s high school senior picture

After dressing each day, I would
diligently attempt to curl the scraps
of hair that encircled my head like a
wreath. Always careful, gentle, “Oh
no, there goes some more.”

For as long as I can remember,
my hair has been part of my identity.
It was long, thick, and golden blond.
It billowed around me when I needed
confidence. I hid behind it when I
couldn’t look the world in the eye.
I flipped it when I felt flirty and pulled
it back when I wanted to be serious.

“Long blond hair” was the phrase
that others most often used to describe
me. I spent a good chunk of each day
washing it, grooming it, styling it, discussing
it, and worrying about it.

Now, it lay in a pile on the bathroom
floor.

Nicole with daughter Audrey

As I slowly raised my gaze to the
mirror, I looked at my newly bald self
for the first time. Touching exposed
scalp, I felt both afraid and free. Like
leaping from a high cliff into a cold
pool of water, there was no turning back.
I had dreaded this moment, hoped it
wouldn’t have to come to this. Now
I could only move forward.

I floated into the master bedroom
where my three young children lay
sprawled on the floor watching a loud
cartoon. “Well guys, what do you
think of my new ‘do?”

My four-year-old son scrambled to a
seated position. His wide eyes swelled
with tears. “Put your hair back on right
now,” he burst out in a terrified voice.

My daughter’s initial shock turned
to giggles. She pointed and covered
her mouth. “You look like Daddy,”
she teased.

In contrast, my two year old looked
up from his cartoon for a moment, and
then he turned his attention back to the
TV without saying a word.

Chemotherapy had waged war
against the cancer in my body. My hair
was a civilian casualty. Over the past
six months, I had watched my hair
leave me. I had grown tired of clinging
to scraps, so that morning I took the
plunge with my husband’s electric clippers.
After the initial unveiling to my
children, I returned to the bathroom
and stood staring at the strange woman
in the mirror.

She wrinkled her eyebrows at me.
“Why do you feel bad?” she asked.
“You’re still the same mommy. Hair is
just toppings.” She hugged me tightly
and fluttered away.

I looked again at the mirror. Then
I saw her, a beautiful woman without
hair, a loving daughter, sister, wife, and
mother. A woman, raw, daring to look
at herself with nothing to hide behind.
Someone who had taught her daughter
to look at inner beauty, even when she
couldn’t always see it.

From then on, I began to define myself
apart from my hair. I asked myself,

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Nicole Patterson is a
32-year-old Hodgkin lymphoma survivor.
She was diagnosed and treated for cancer
during her fourth pregnancy and had a
healthy boy. A former English teacher,
Nicole loves to write about her experiences
with cancer.

This article was published in Coping® with Cancer magazine,
May/June
2009.